


Free To Be You

by williamastankova



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-14
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-05-07 01:36:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14660625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/williamastankova/pseuds/williamastankova
Summary: Old thoughts of the Hound are no longer relevant, Sansa learns, and new emotions create conflict within the eldest Stark girl.





	1. One

He was no longer a hound. He was no longer the Hound, as Sansa discovered very soon after his arrival at Winterfell.

She had left to greet Jon upon his return, but she hadn't been informed Sandor would be there, too. Caught off guard, all she could do was stare incredulously at him. She was sure she had heard of his death from someone, somewhere. He had abandonded Joffrey at the Battle of Blackwater, and that was all she had heard for certain, so she had figured somebody had gotten to him. No matter how muscular and intimidating he was, he wasn't strong - not really. Sansa had found him to be rather vulnerable - bordering on sweet, even - when she had been King's Landing's hostage, years ago. His real turning point was when he offered to take her with him, almost like a proposal, and leave their bad pasts and experiences behind together. She had been so foolish to say no, she said, looking back with the knowledge of what was to come. However, she soon corrected herself: she was a child, and the result of all of her misfortunes was the prosperity of Winterfell, and the remaining Stark children. It was more than worth it, no matter what had happened to her.

Still, even after this filtering of her thoughts, she couldn't bring herself to address him. What would she even have called him, if she had? The Hound? He was no longer. Ser? Too formal; he would likely scoff, stating plainly he was no prissy knight, or any knight at all for that matter. Was she to call him Sandor? That seemed most appropriate, but she still only moved to Jon, watching as Sandor strolled past, seeming not to have noticed her either. Or perhaps he was playing the same game she was, though she supposed it didn't really matter. She embraced Jon, clutching the material on his back tunic tightly, refusing to let him go for a few moments. When she let go and allowed herself to break their silence, Sandor seemed to have gone, meaning she didn't have to talk to him, at least not yet. She had time to collect her thoughts, though she also vowed to talk to him at the obligatory 'welcome back' feast she would throw in their honour.

Two nights later, even with the hard times around them, the people of Winterfell managed to pull together a half-decent feast for the people, and it seemed that everybody was in attendance. Yes, there was Jon with Daenerys and they were chatting away, laughing to themselves, and there was Brienne mingling inamongst a crowd of people, looking comfortably uncomfortable in her own special way. Various of Winterfell's own people were socialising, and they seemed happy enough. It was, Sansa thought, nice to see people being satisfied, especially in times like this. The winter had come, as her house promised, but their spirits had not gone cold - at least not yet. That was something.

She did, however, notice the absence of two people: her sister, and Clegane. No, that sounded wrong. She was still trying to figure out what to refer to him as, working from "Clegane" to "old pal", neither of which worked in her favour. Her time was running out, but it didn't really matter. As the eggtimer drained, her need to speak to him grew evermore, until it was almost unbearable. Once she was sure the festivities were well on their way to fantastic, she quietly excused herself, and slipped from the hall, almost completely silent. As she roamed the halls searching for both or either of them, she pulled her fur more tightly around her waist. Her dress, a dark pink, was made from dyed fox fur, and it still didn't keep her warm enough, forcing her to wear her warmer cloak on top of it. This was, she made sure to remind herself whenever she found herself complaning about the smallest of things, the very smallest, most insignificant thing to give up. When given the option between her life and looking pretty, her answer now would be much different to that of her 5 years ago. She was no longer a child; she was a woman. Lady Stark had more important things than worrying what others thought of the way she dressed.

The halls were almost eerily quiet. It was a good thing she knew where everybody had went, otherwise she would have thought some dreadful event had taken everybody in the middle of the night, and then she would wonder why she had been left behind. She could hear the loud noise her boot heel made on the creaky wooden planks, and she felt powerful. Turning a corner to emerge from a doorway into the courtyard, she stopped almost immediately in her tracks.

On the courtyard, she saw a sight she had never expected to see, in all of her years. There, clad in leather, dancing and jabbing, was Arya, half her hair pulled tightly back, slick with some product or other. This, on its own, was not an unusual sight. It was, however, when she looked past her sister, the blur she now was as she ran, and found herself looking yet again at Sandor Clegane. He held a sword of his own, a mighty, hefty chunk of steel, and was swinging it around skillfully, narrowly missing Arya each time he did so. Sansa saw how tired he was growing, trying to keep up with the spritely young girl, and her heart began to pity him without her consent. After all, with all he had done for her, this was still the Hound, whether he looked and acted like him or not, and the Hound was a murderer. Perhaps he usually only acted on the commands of others, but he still had blood on his hands - more than anybody else Sansa had ever known - and that made him a murderer. She could not pity a murderer such as him. No, it couldn't be.

Then, she saw. His long locks had been cut. Not bluntly - not randomly, in the spur of the moment, as though accidentally in action - but purposefully, deliberately. His hair that had once breached the area between his chin and his collar now was no further than his ear, and she almost couldn't recognise him in that instant. How had she not noticed? Now, his charred face was exposed to the elements, cold and icy, and she could see his face properly, for the first time in forever. She saw how simultaneously ancient he was, and how much of a baby he seemed to be. She had been correct: he was innocent, really. His face told her so. The previously unseen hurt and tiredness spoke to her on an inexplicable level, and she pitied him once again. Not just for that moment, and not for his future, but instead for his past. She reflected on his story for a moment, and felt her heart sink into her stomach.

Suddenly, she awoke from her daydream, or rather daynightmare, and saw Arya on the floor, sword out of hand, completely at the whim of the Hound. If she was in her sister's position, she would have surrendered - at least she thought she would. Even she didn't know her capabilities anymore, which was both a blessing and a curse. But no - Arya remained, stone-faced, seemingly awaiting her death. Knowing there was nothing she could do - no way she could intervene in time to save her sister's life - she watched helplessly, awaiting the brute that was the Hound to take over, lift his sword, and plunge it into the exposed flesh of her sister's neck, but this didn't happen. Her stomach twisted and turned uncomfortably, and she stood stupidly like a statue, virtually in the middle of the courtyard, but she witnessed not the brutal murder of Arya, but the Hound drawing his sword away and slipping it into its sheath, then offering the disarmed girl a hand to help her stand, and Sansa heard him laughing.  
"You'll get yourself killed with that silly water dance you do," he gloated, still making Sansa's stomach flip at the thought.  
"I'm not dead yet." Her sister retorted in her usual fashion, brushing herself down and then looking up at him. For a split second, Sansa almost thought she was going to leap on him and kiss him, which made her feel inexplicably sick. Blaming this on the noticeable age difference between the two of them, she watched them again. Somehow, as if by a miracle, they hadn't noticed her yet.

Sansa almost choked when she watched her sister fling herself at the Hound, and throw her slender arms around his middle. This was unlike Arya, Sansa thought, at least the Arya she had known. _Perhaps the new Arya enjoyed hugging?_ The only person Sansa had ever witnessed her hug in her entire life was Jon, and she always thought the reason behind this was because she respected him, and subconsciously pitied him. Pity, pity, pity.  
Voice barely above a distant whisper, Arya murmured, "I missed you." Sansa almost didn't hear her at all, though she realised that was probably the intention: nobody but the Hound was intended to hear her deep confession of sentimentality.  
The Hound brought a colossal palm - or maybe it wasn't colossal, it just looked it compared to Arya's small frame - to rest on the top of the girl's head. Patting her hair lightly, Sansa heard him more clearly than Arya when he replied, "I missed you too, boy."

Sansa turned on her heels, making sure to exit as quietly as she had entered, but quickly - stealthily - too. Once she was sure she was out of their immediate line of sight, she allowed her thoughts to wander. Many thoughts arose: about Arya, about Winterfell, and Jon. One stood out most prominently, though, she noticed. It was one of the Hound, and how he wasn't really the Hound anymore. After seeing what she had seen - Arya, soft and squishy; the Hound, mushy and heartfelt - she came to one conclusion, and one conclusion only: Sandor really wasn't so bad after all. And, more importantly, Sandor was the Hound no longer. She sighed a breath of relief, and then inhaled one of utmost confusion. After all, if he wasn't the violent killing machine, what was he? If his King's Landing self was gone, where did that leave them? Would he even remember her?

Retreating to the party, and taking her seat at the head of the hall, the thoughts did not stop. They escalated, eventually breaching areas Sansa did not want to go right now. To stop herself overheating, she grabbed the nearest goblet with wine inside, and threw it back: that was a problem for another day. Now, she would be happy, and enjoy her family reunion. Tomorrow, she would deal with it. Tomorrow, she would address Sandor.


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa dreams, for the first time in the longest time, and she does (not) like what she sees; life becomes increasingly confusing for the Lady of Winterfell.

Dreams were cruel, unimportant, and irrational. This conclusion was drawn by Sansa after she awoke, disorientated, and at a complete loss for words. The night prior had gone as follows:

She had returned to the feast. She drank herself silly (perhaps too silly, for the Lady of Winterfell), and all she could remember was looking into the barrell of wine, chugging it in a manner that couldn't have been more unladylike, and collapsing into her bed, utterly wasted, hours later. She had never been a heavy drinker, even through her hardships, and her upbringing hadn't enabled her to grow used to the feeling, so therefore she was incapable of knowing when enough was enough. Still, she managed to make it back to her sleeping quarters safely, which was what was crucial. That night, however, in her dreams, her mind conjured up some strange things.

Her dreams mainly revolved around - much to her surprise - Sandor. She saw her future and, much to her waking surprise, she was married to the younger Clegane brother. She watched herself - another her - exchange her vows with him, looking up at him adoringly, as though there was nothing more precious in the world, and turning around to let him drape a fur cloak over her shoulders. She watched herself clasp lips with him, and she (the real her) had no idea how to feel. Her insides did something she hadn't felt for a very, very long time, if she even ever had. As soon as the scene had appeared, it vanished into smoke, being replaced with another image.

Sandor stood, clad in half of his armour, in a location Sansa couldn't make out. It seemed to be a house - yes, she could see a table more clearly now. From the foggy border of her vision, there emerged a little girl, no older than five or six. She ran to Sandor and leaped into his arms, and he lifted her to raise her above his head (a height that concerned Sansa immensely, and she wished for him to put her down, for fear of a terrible accident). Eventually, her wish was granted, and the girl had her own two feet on the ground once more. She continued to look up at the man three times her height with a silly grin on her face, one that only young children wear, through having never experienced the real world (Sansa recognised it well). Sansa moved closer to gain a better, clearer perspective, and she now saw that the girl bore an almost uncanny resemblence to Arya, but it definitely wasn't her. Something about her eyes reminded Sansa of herself, but the child's colouring matched that of her dream-husband, Clegane. Dreams often had inexplicable logic, that wedded petite lady wolves to brawny, masculine lords they had no romantic thoughts for in the real world. That was just how it worked.

The scene shifted only slightly, still containing Sandor and the girl, but now they seemed to be outside, and she was hitting him in the shin with what seemed to be a stick of some kind of tree, and she was giggling cheekily. Her laugh reminded Sansa yet again of her sister's, and her eyes even scrunched the way Arya's did in her joyous moments. Looking down at her through squinted eyes of his own was Sandor, who began reaching down to tickle the child. She screamed in delight, and dropped her weapon, now lying on the floor and rolling about. Sandor kneeled beside her, laughing heartily in harmony with her, then stopping his actions abruptly. He waited for her laughter to stop before he said, "you'll get yourself killed doing that silly water dance you do," - something that was completely irrelevant, and made no sense in this context. The girl sat up before him, flung her arms around his neck, and whispered in a childish voice, "I'm not dead yet.".

Sansa shook awake, confused what she had just dreamed, and just exactly why was she so hot? Nothing made sense about that night, but while Sansa dressed herself and ran some of her errands, she found her mind refused to let go of the happenings. What did they mean? Why did Sandor feature so heavily? She hadn't even spoken to him yet, properly. Perhaps that was it. Maybe she longed to speak to him, to converse for the first time in so long, which was why she had dreamt of him the night prior. That must have been it. Her new quest was to find him and talk to him, as she recalled she had vowed to in her sober mind the previous night, before all of the drinking and dreaming.

After exchanging pleasantries with numerous Winterfell inhabitants, she hurriedly went around the halls, wondering who to ask of the man's whereabouts. Turning a corner, she almost yelped loudly as she crashed into somebody, face-to-chest. She was, however, glad she didn't, when she regained her composure and looked to see who she had ran into. Sandor; it was him.  
"Hello," she managed, forgetting anything and everything she had meant to say.  
"Little bird," he replied, following it quickly with, "sorry, it's Lady of Winterfell now, isn't it?"  
She let out a breathy laugh, "Either or; they're interchangeable."  
He smiled, his mouth pulling up further on the unburnt side of his face. It was now she realised how much more of his face was visible. She took a quick look across his entire face, eventually settling back on his eyes, only partially because it was the normal thing to do.

A quiet moment passed, before she spoke again, no longer feeling so much like a child, as she had been at their last meeting, "how has the time served you?"  
He groaned, "Poorly. Look at my hair. At least I'm away from that cunt, Joffrey," he stopped, "and so are you."  
She nodded and smiled in a queenly fashion, "I am. I've gone between men, against my will, but here we are, in Winterfell at last."  
Her words seemed to flip something inside of him, but he managed to keep his cool, knowing anger would solve nothing - it would not send him back in time to make the Lannister bastard, so-called King Joffrey, or any other man pay for their actions towards the little bird, by force-feeding them their own intestines. And so, he nodded, making note to learn more later, and said, "Arya is well."  
"Yes," Sansa agreed earnestly, "She certainly knows how to handle herself." Sansa recalled the 'fight' she had witnessed between Sandor and her sister last night, and smiled a little wider, "I'm sure she could give even you a good fight."  
Sandor guffawed, "She would try! Last time I saw her, after escaping King's Landing, I took your sister half around the world, trying to find somewhere safe for her to go. I had to tell her I wanted to sell her, so she'd believe me and not try to run away, as nuts as that may sound. I had a reputation to keep."  
Sansa nodded in reply, his final words resonating within her, and she suddenly felt sheepish again, like a child once more. She remembered her dream once more, and she became like a coward; her flight instinct kicked in, "Of course. Anyway, I'd better let you go. I'll be seeing you later, I hope?"  
"Certainly, m'lady." He bowed, only half in jest, "It's good to talk to you again. I'm glad you're well."  
"And I you." She smiled, pausing a moment before opening her arms to encase him, praying he wouldn't freeze up on her.

Already on her tiptoes to rest her head on his shoulder, she was taken off of the ground by his strong grasp, which enveloped her lithe waist securely and picked her up, accidentally knocking his head against hers in the process. They stayed like that for a minute or two, until Sansa retreated, smiling broadly, and bid him a good day. Not knowing where she was going as she walked off, she thought it a good idea to find Arya, and ask her indirectly for her thoughts on the dream business. There was virtually nobody Sansa trusted more in the world than her, so it was a good plan.

It didn't take very long to find her. Sansa searched less than half a dozen rooms before she located her sister, practising - perfecting - her swordfighting, alone in the courtyard, as she had been the night before. Sansa, not wanting to stop her, watched for a moment, secretly enamoured by Arya's talent. When several minutes had passed, however, Sansa cleared her throat, not seeing Arya jump, not even a little bit, and spoke.  
"May I have a minute of your time?"   
"Of course," Arya said, voice unusually warm, "What's the matter?"  
"Arya," Sansa began, "do you dream?"  
Arya stopped swinging, put the sharpened tip of Needle into the frozen earth, and pondered for a moment, before shrugging and answering, "Sometimes. Why do you ask?"  
Sansa avoided answering that. "Do your dreams ever not make sense?"  
"Again, sometimes," Arya looked at her curiously, "Then again, the dreams that don't make sense usually end up making sense later down the line, even if I can't comprehend them in the moment. When I was in Braavos, a woman told me that dreams are premonitions of things to come, but she could be wrong. She tried to make me buy her herbs that she didn't have after that, so it's entirely possible." Arya cracked a smile, prompting her older sister to, too.   
"That's not very helpful to my predicament," Sansa explained, letting herself laugh, "but thanks."  
As she turned to leave, Arya called, "No! Wait, tell me what happened. Maybe I can help you interpret."  
Sansa shook her head, sure if she did it would just prompt teasing from her baby sister, but did say, "Tell me about your dreams. Maybe there's something similar."  
Arya went silent, and if Sansa wasn't looking at her, she wouldn't have known she hadn't left altogether. Soon, though, she perked up, beginning, "I have a few recurring ones."  
"Go on." Sansa prompted.   
"Well, I dream of killing the Queen. I think of skewering her eyeball, then he chest, and watching her bleed out." Sansa inhaled sharply, prompting her sister to retract her statement somewhat, "Well, they're not all like that. Sometimes, I dream about..." she trailed off, but eventually finishing with a very general, "people."  
"People?" Sansa perked up. This might be something relevant.   
"People." Arya confirmed.  
"What sorts of dreams are they?"  
"...good ones. Weird ones, ones that make me feel queasy when I wake up, like how can I think such things, being who I am, but when I think about them later, they're good. Really good." Sansa saw her smile a little, against her will, "I think they mean something. Well, not on their own, they don't, but I think they're meant to inspire."  
"To inspire?" Sansa inquired, uncertain of her meaning.  
"I mean, things you should do. Like, if you dream of eating a specific thing, or talking to a certain person, you should." She explained, "It's a sign from the universe, if it's easier to think of it that way."  
Sansa nodded, though she still didn't know what that meant for her situation. She gave her sister a sure smile, though, so she could get back to her practice, and then she turned around and left.

In actuality, Sansa found she was more confused now than she had been before talking to Arya, though this was the most probably outcome anyway. She sighed to herself, giving up understanding the dream for now, and instead turned her attention to finding Jon, and helping him with something - anything to get her mind off of Sandor. It seemed he was taking over her life, and she both liked and hated it immensely.

She shuddered, and not because of the cold; her confused mind was the coldest and biggest threat to her, right now, and it was inescapable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter. DISCLAIMER: I'm writing these whenever I so feel inspired, and I finish them when they seem to come to their natural end. Enjoy x


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor is upset by an encounter, and takes comfort in time with Sansa; he learns she can still sing, even after all of the years. Sansa takes charge of herself.

Cersei was right. As much as Sansa despised saying it, Cersei had been right all along: there was nothing in the world a woman could love more than her children. Sansa learned this, oddly,  
though she had bore no children in her womb. Rather, the one dream she had had about Sandor and their daughter had blossomed into many, occurring almost nightly. Now, she even found herself  
disappointed when she broke away from the dark world of dreams to real life, for in real life there was no daughter, and no husband of the man Clegane. This night was no different; she sighed.

More of the same - no need for detail. With the sky seeming constantly heavy and dull in the North - something, the only thing she had missed about the South was its sunny days and cool nights,  
though she supposed nowhere was warm now - she had grew to learn how to read the sky, so she knew it was far too early for her to be up. She tried to force herself back into uneventful slumber,  
to no avail. She tossed and turned, stubbornly thinking of nothing, until eventually she found sleep more important and caved, letting her nipping mind wander into thoughts of Sandor, and the  
mini Arya whom she had temporarily named Samara, and found peace and rest in this cradle.

This quiet was disturbed some time after by shouting from outside - not urgent, life-or-death shouting, but that of a mildly distressing situation which the Lady of Winterfell should tend to  
for looking better to her people. With this in mind, Sansa rose, vision and mind groggy, and promptly exited her chambers, clad in furs. She followed the noise to its source, where she found  
Sandor walking down a path, looking less than pleased. Confused, she stopped him, pressing a hand gently but firmly to his chest when he didn't hear her call out, and asked:  
"Sandor, what's happened?"

He looked down at her, towering now more than ever, brown eyes piercing but unthreatening to her and scoffed, "well, she's your sister. I suppose you're the only one who can do very much about  
it, aren't you, Little Bird?"  
Putting two and two together, she asked, "Arya? What's she done?"   
Sandor once again barked out a laugh, "What's she done? More like what hasn't she done," something in his face changed as he went on, "would you tell her boy to at least have the decency to put  
a bloody shirt on?"

Sansa didn't quite know how to respond. 'Her boy'? Arya had a boy? Why didn't Sansa know of this? Was she not doing her part as the ruler of Winterfell, and worse yet as Arya's sister? She shook  
her head.  
She stopped him. "What do you mean, Sandor?" She felt a little silly, asking such a thing, though she concluded it was best to know what was going on and momentarily look a fool than to pretend  
she knew and forever be regarded as an idiotic liar.   
As he looked at her with kind eyes, he seemed to calm a little, though he remained a little pink, flushed with his anger. "That blacksmith, whatever the fuck his name is. Gendry: Robert's  
bastard."

Sansa then had a greater understanding. She had been right, though indirectly. She often thought she caught Arya staring at Gendry just a beat too long, following his return alongside Sandor and  
Jon to Winterfell. Though, admittedly, she had never thought her sister could even fathom such things, let alone be so inclined to turn those thoughts into actions. Of course, Sansa knew Arya  
was a woman now, which came with womanly needs and desires. While they were apart, she often thought of her sister, and how she must be changing. Now she saw her, she had confirmation, but  
still, Arya seemed to her still a brave, child-minded-in-some-aspects girl. Apparently, though, Sansa's suspisions were incorrect.

Wordlessly, Sansa flipped her gaze from Sandor to the direction, to the way he was going, and then back. Thinking quickly, and not wanting to risk him killing Gendry, she suggested,  
"Do you want to get a drink?"

\--

"And I walked in, and they're fucking all over eachother." He slammed down his horn of ale, "Animals!" He proclaimed loudly.

Sansa had learned shushing him didn't work around about the sixth time she tried it. Now, she nodded along, simply trying to elicit as much information as possible from him before he exploded  
onto every wall. After his rant (which lasted through twenty minutes and far too many drinks, mind), Sandor had seemed to calm down. And, with this, he turned his attention to her.  
"Lady of Winterfell, eh?" She almost jumped, the change of topic was so sudden, "It suits you, little bird, it really does, but so does little bird. You can still sing?"  
Sansa scoffed, and turned her eye to the swilling liquid in her own cup, "I wouldn't know. It's been years since I've even tried."  
Sandor was quiet for a moment, and then he said, "You should try. Your voice was always so pretty." He looked almost wistful - warmly nostalgic, as he seemed to recall something Sansa couldn't.  
"It'd hardly be appropriate now, I should think." She joked, "I have a reputation to uphold now, you know. The Lady of Winterfell can't just burst out into song whenever she wants." She cast a  
smile to him, letting him know it was in jest.  
In return, he bared his teeth in a wolfish, lopsided grin, "The Lady of Winterfell can do whatever the fuck she so pleases, I should think, little bird." He let his mouth drop a little, making  
it more straight, "But we could always go somewhere, just incase. No one comes near me, I'm sure you know by now. You'd be safe with me."  
She brought her eyes to his, having been roaming his face absentmindedly, and spoke in a sadder tone than she had intended. "That's what you promised me on the night of the Blackwater."  
He was quiet, but nodded still to let her know he recalled.  
"I should have gone with you."

The moments that followed were completely silent, save for the occasional noise from people around them. Sansa took the time to dwell on what could have happened, had she taken him up on his  
offer that night. Of course, in her childish brain at that time, she couldn't have known better. She had been deceived by the Lannisters, and taught that any step out of line would end her up  
with the same fate as her father: her head would be left to rot on the walls of King's Landing. Maybe they would even find Arya, but instead of beheading her, they'd repeat what Joffrey had  
done to her and make her look at her decapitated family, reminding her how alone she was in the world. Sansa recalled that day, and how she cried. She also remembered, however, who had been  
there, mopping up her mess of mucus, blood, and tears: Sandor. He had handed her the hankerchief to clean herself up - no, first, he had delicately held her in place, and dabbed her bruised  
lip with it, and then handed it to her. Sure, his words might have not been the most reassuring thing in the moment, but he had tried to help her. He wouldn't lie to her, she knew. If there was  
one person she could trust, it was Sandor Clegane, as odd as that may have sounded after so many years of despising him, and wishing misfortune onto him after what he had done - or rather not  
done - when her father lost his head. But that wasn't him - that was Ser Ilyn Payne, and he had been dealt with. It was over.

"Let's go to the brothel."  
"Excuse me?" Sansa was astounded. She thought she had heard him wrong, having been so deep in her own mind that she couldn't focus on anything else.  
Sandor barked, "Not like that, little bird. I meant to escape everybody - to see if you can still sing."  
She pondered on it for a moment, then said, more quietly, "I don't think it'd be easy to get in there. My face is pretty well-known around here, I should imagine."  
"You Tullys," this made Sansa oddly giddy, as she didn't think she'd ever been called a Tully in her lifetime, at least not that she could remember, "underestimate the power of a heavy cloak to  
hide that orange mane of yours."

Swiftly, he stood and removed his cloak-like robe, and passed it to her. When she managed to wrestle it on, she felt ridiculous. It was colossal, and swallowed her whole. Sansa had always been  
a slender girl, but Sandor was something else. A tall girl wearing a tall man's clothes still resulted in a swamping of everything that made her remotely outwardly female, she learned. She left  
the hood off as she rose, pulling at it and playing around with her standing position, debating whether or not to hold a bunch of it or leave it running like a veil on the floor. 

Sandor, with a rough finger and a soft touch, tilted her face upwards, bringing her to look at him, and started fussing with her hood, first reaching around her head to pull it over, and then  
adjusting its looseness to a point where she could just about see, and then he turned his attention to her braided hair. He played with it, clearly contemplating taking it out and then deciding  
against it, before lifting the bulk of it and reaching inside her hood, tucking it behind her head. As his hand made it way, tunneling, out of the fabric, his fingers brushed against the exposed  
skin of her neck. Against her will, she let out a small, surprised noise, of which she felt she had to explain herself.  
"You're cold." She said simply, earning an exhale of air from his nostrils, which made her hood ripple lightly.  
"And you're not." He met her eye for a split second, and then began tucking in the stray auburn hairs under the material, "It's bloody freezing up here, if you haven't noticed. Being in the  
capital so long, I forgot what the cold was like." His hands dropped reluctantly to his sides, and he double-checked his handywork, pulling the hood a little forward before saying, "You're  
done. You look like one of us now, except with less facial hair and better cheekbones."

She opted to roll her eyes, and then clutch at her cloak, pulling it off of the ground as they left the room and entered the snowy plain of the square. Unlike she might have a few years ago,  
she didn't let him lead. After all, she knew the way, so why shouldn't she? She was the one who had lived there her entire life; there was no shame in it. And, as Lady Stark, she was entitled,  
as Sandor so deftly put it, wherever she so liked. Which now, oddly enough, was the brothel of Winterfell. Oh, how her ancestors would be proud.

They got there in next to no time, and Sandor stopped her before they entered to check no hairs had falled out, which he claimed would break her disguise. With hands ran smootly from the top  
midpoint of her head to her jawline, he was satisfied, and enabled their entrance. As soon as she entered, Sansa noted the stench of sex in the air. All around them, there were women with men,  
men with men, women with women, all swimming around, going with whoever they so desired. In a strange way, Sansa liked the idea. She enjoyed thinking that the people had the choice to be there  
and to spend the night with whomever they chose to be with, though something automatically shut that concept down in her brain. She had heard the stories from Littlefinger, her aunt Lysa, and  
various other people growing up. She knew how some were forced to be there, sometimes from the age of 10 or younger. The idea stayed, and she felt sick to her stomach. 

Sandor quickly got a room, and led her upstairs with a hand on the small of her back. Once inside, she allowed herself to breathe, and she shimmied off her - his - cloak in little more than three seconds. She let it fall onto the bed, and then she fell with it. Until that point, she hadn't realised how tired she felt. Not even tired, more drained of everything. She often had this experience after drinking, and chalked it up to that. She knew the best thing for her to do when she felt in such a daze was to sit up and remain active, so she did just that. She rose to sit, and took a quick scan of the room, eyes landing on Sandor who had taken his own warmest layer off and left it on the floor. He turned around and caught her eye.

This often happened back at King's Landing. Walking down the halls in her fashioned, lilac or periwinkle robes, she found herself looking at the Hound before she knew it, and more often than she cared to admit she yelped in fear. The Hound terrified her. With his scalded face and patched, unkempt hair, he looked odd, and what made it worse was how he grinned as she made her frightened noise. The Hound took pleasure in frightening little girls, but this was no Hound, and she was no little girl. No, now they were two adults, him with the same scarring but shorter hair and warmed features when compared to his frosted old ones, and her with her title and experiences, and newfound ability of hindsight to see into her childhood and revisit things, able to advise her past self how to make ammends 'next time'. They weren't Sansa Lannister and the Hound anymore, they were just old... somethings, with a room in a brothel and her dreams of their future together. Her subconscious longed to be Sansa Clegane, but she dared not to think of such things, just incase he could read minds. 

He cautiously made his way to the double bed, where he placed a hand on it and gently lowered himself down, keeping her eyes casually engaged the entire time. Something close to pain flashed across his features as he sat, but soon faded, so she didn't question it. She figured plainly that he had grown older (obvious) in their time apart, and there was no issue with that. She instead remained optionally mum.  
After ten seconds or so, he broke in, "would you sing for me, little bird?"  
Sansa exhaled automatically at this for an inexplicable reason, and nodded as a natural reaction. 

She shifted, getting more comfortable with her legs on the bed and body positioned more towards Sandor, before clearing her throat and beginning to sing. She lost the tune so many times, it was a fair argument to say she didn't really know it in the first place. Sandor didn't seem to mind her slip-ups and frequent voice cracks, though, for he seemed to grow more and more enchanted the longer she went on. 

_He rode through the streets of the city_   
_Down from his hill on high_   
_O'er the winds and the steppes and the cobble_   
_He rode to a woman's side_   
_For she was his secret treasure_   
_She was his shame and his bliss_   
_And a chain and a keep are nothing_   
_Compared to a woman's kiss_   
  
_For hands of gold are always cold_   
_But a woman's hands are warm_
    
    
      _For hands of gold are always cold_  
    
    _But a woman's hands are warm_
    
    
    
    She could have gone on, but she forgot the lyrics entirely, and then the tune went with it. She sighed, closing her eyes, and let herself laugh a little at herself. "I forgot the words."  
    
      
    
    Sandor didn't reply. Confused, she went to open her eyes, but before she could do so she felt an arm reach out and wrap around her waist, pulling her forward.  
    
      
    
    Saving herself from topping over  
    
    by putting out her hands, Sansa opened her eyes to find herself in the arms of Sandor, and looking into his brown eyes. His chest radiated heat, and she felt his heart pumping rapidly. Their  
    
    faces were mere inches apart, and she felt the short, overly-frequent breaths breeze onto her skin, warm in contrast to their surroundings. Her eyes darted from his left, to his right, and  
    
    rested there. She was searching for something - daring him for something - but she saw him stiffen and make to move her back; she swore she could see an apology on his lips. This wasn't a  
    
    mistake, though, she knew it, and so she leaned forward quickly, capturing his mouth with her own.  
    
      
    
    To her surprise, his lips tasted almost sweet. Perhaps it was the ale, or the after-effect  
    
    of the immense cold they had just experienced when outside, but he was sweet. Although she wouldn't admit to ever thinking about kissing the Hound, she would admit that sweet was the last  
    
    thing she imagined he would taste like. She thought he would taste of stale beer, charcoal, and other women (the ones that weren't so much sweet as spicy, something Sansa didn't like as a  
    
    personal preference). She imagined his chest would be hard and unforgiving, should she ever be in such a position as she was now. He wanted to be seen as frozen by the outside world, even after  
    
    everything, but he wasn't - not really. His heart, she felt, beat much like everybody elses. The thought made her smile, breaking their embrace.  
    
      
    
    Sansa was the first to open her eyes. She witnessed Sandor vulnerable. She traced his face, seeing his worn skin, his long eyelashes. She saw the scarring on his face up close for the first  
    
    time, properly, and she found it oddly beautiful. Yes, it was raw and constantly looked sore to her, and she couldn't help but imagine how it felt for him to remember how he acquired it each  
    
    and every time he saw his reflection, but it was unique. Because she knew it was his and his only, she found it mesmerising. The tissue was crimson, and parts of his face still looked charred,  
    
    and he looked wonderful. She managed to reach this conclusion, and then his eyes opened, surprisingly glistening. "What are you doing, little bird?" The term of endearment and tone of his voice  
    
    alerted her to the fact he wasn't accusing her of doing wrong, but that he really didn't understand why she had kissed him. In all honesty, she couldn't say why she had, but she knew it was the  
    
    right thing to do. In fact, it made her want more, so as her answer she began undoing her dress, and then pulled it off entirely. His eyes scanned her womanly curves, and his mouth dropped  
    
    noticeably.  
    
      
    
    Without another word exchanged between them, he reached out to cup her waist, and pulled her to lie beside him with little effort, as though she were no more than a lightweight doll. She only  
    
    watched as he took in more of her body, appreciating every dip inward and outward, and when he came to kneel and shifted to be in line with her, sitting at her feet. Automatically, as if it  
    
    was the most natural thing in the world, she unashamedly spread her knees, leaving herself exposed, at his whim. It was the first time in her life she had opened her legs without feeling afraid  
    
    of what was to come; she even found herself anticipating it.  
    
      
    
    Looking down at him, through the new gap in her knees, she saw him dip down and felt his beard brush against the inside of her thighs, and then felt the kisses he pressed there, trailing to her  
    
    womanhood. She moaned like the whores whose house she was in, and the world turned a pleasurable black.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written on my phone in the spur of an inspired moment. Please excuse any and all errors! Many happy returns x


End file.
